His last dance
by Esta
Summary: Irene and Mycroft had been wrong. Wrong about him not having a sex life. He once had. But his last "relationship" had been long ago, long before Mycroft started to watch Sherlock's every move. In a time, when Sherlock still desperately tried to fit in into a society in which there was no place for a genius like him. He had taken a dangerous road – plastered with blood, drugs, sex
1. Chapter 1

**His last dance**

_Irene and Microft had been wrong. Wrong about him not having a sex life. He once had. But his last "relationship" had been long ago, long before Mycroft started to watch Sherlock's every move. In a time, when Sherlock still desperately tried to fit in into a society in which there was no place for a genius like him. He had taken a dangerous road – plastered with blood, drugs, sex and self-destruction._

**Chapter One**

John was gone. Gone out on another date, with another woman, to another of these tedious and boring talks and stolen kisses and… what the hell was he thinking? He had long ago stopped caring. Caring about everyone moving on, leaving him behind. It started when he was a child and it would only end with his death.

Sherlock stared out of the window of Baker Street 221B. It was raining, what a cliché. There was no work for him to do, no case and even his experiments seemed far too boring. The rotting fingers in the sink, oh yes he could smell them, the eyeballs he had split open with his scalpel hours ago – it didn't matter to him. He was not depressed, never was. But it was one of those evenings when the solidly build walls of his mind castle started to crumble.

It was nagging on him. It shouldn't but it did: Irene Adler teasing him, Mycroft mocking his sexual inexperience, Moriarty calling him the Virgin-Holmes. He had long stopped caring about what other people did, said. Or didn't he? It was one of those evenings he was no longer sure of himself. It was the twilight hour that brought danger.

Sherlock massaged his temples. Thinking meant headaches. Thinking along this road meant destruction of his mind. He had once done it. Dear god… he did remember it every day: How he wanted to breathe but no air filled his lungs, how his heart beat slowed down and his body started shaking. There was blood in his mouth from biting down too hart, splitting open lips and tongue. And the pain, dear god, this unbearable pain in his chest… What had he thought then: That dying of drug abuse was easy? That he would lose consciousness and feel nothing? Whish for it and you would never get it. He had pumped the heroin into his veins to end his miserable excuse of a life. But what a joke: For when dying he suddenly realized, everything he ever wanted was to live. Everything he ever did, he did to feel alive. Stupid. Stupid! Day after day he had accused others of being so, still did, but it was him, the great Sherlock Holmes, that was the most stupid man walking on earth.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Remembering was dangerous. He tried not to. But closing his eyes meant retreating into his mind. And there they were waiting. Dormant, but intact. He had buried them deep in the dungeons of his mind: those pictures of him in his youth, his struggle to build a life, to fit in. He could see himself failing and then… what had he been thinking. Stupid! He was not Virgin Holmes. He was Stupid Holmes. Stupid!

He absently touched the scar on the back of his left hand. A soft trace of long forgotten lies. He had two others on his back, on the right side near his spine. Knife wounds. John had recognized them for what they were, when he had once flicked him together after being beaten up on a chase. John had recognized them but had deduced the wrong thing. As always. John, this far too good, too caring man, had assumed they were wounds inflicted by an assassin. Dear John, no you are wrong, for the darkness is much deeper in your friend than you ever thought. How could Sherlock tell John the truth since he knew what John thought about his current experiments? How could Sherlock tell him that the scars were the result of an experiment involving LSD, a knife and sex – with a man after all?

Even Mycroft had been wrong – always been wrong, when it came to his little brother. Mycroft was the one who always found a way to appear normal – not a genius, but a hard working man who achieved a career by willpower and diligence. Not because of his extraordinary mind. Mycroft had it – the genius-gen. But he never had the ambition to shine. Unlike his younger brother he had always known when to shut up. And that is why Mycroft never understood Sherlock's struggle, his inner turmoil, the feeling of being lost. He never understood how far Sherlock would go until one day he got this cryptic letter of goodbye Sherlock had sent him before taking the overdose. It had been Sherlock's luck. For this one sign of weakness he had once shown towards his brother, had saved his live. It was all in a blur. The things that happened after Sherlock had started throwing up his own blood. Making a mess of the carpet… But somehow Mycroft saved him, controlled him since then. But Mycroft never understood that Sherlock's self-destruction ran deeper than simply taking an overdose.

Not good. Not good at all. Sherlock's breathing was labored. It was his danger-night, he recognized the signs now. Why not earlier? He would never have let John go out, if he had seen the signs before. He touched the wall to steady himself. The pull. He felt it. Deep down. Dear God… dangerous. It was worse than ever. The pictures in his mind started to rotate, making his head spin. Steady, Sherlock told himself, forced his eyes open. The room seemed to be in a blur. If it had been someone else, he would have called it a panic attack. But a Sherlock Holmes never panicked, never ever.

Slowly Sherlock walked through the room. If he could make it stop, everything would be fine. No drugs, he promised. No drugs to feel numb. If he could sleep… He knew John had pills in the bathroom. Not many for he still feared Sherlock could misuse them. How right he was. There they were. Paracetamols. Good. Five. Right. No more. And one sleeping pill. Only one. No more. Strange. Is it drug abuse to make yourself a bit more comfortable when in despair? Sherlock let himself fall into his chair, five plus one… was it too much? How did it come that in these situations his brilliant mind never functioned properly? One plus five and a glass of wine. That was ok, or? Even John would approve. Wouldn't he? How had he come so far? From being angry with John for going out, for being annoyed with his brother and this slut of… no he never used these words… to this mess? Five plus one was definitely ok. Better take two or three of the sleeping pills. Only to be sure. One never knew, he was used to those things after all. Far better than heroin. Not that dangerous. Or? He swallowed. They tasted like shit. Wine. Yes wine made it better. One glass… maybe two or three…

Sherlock felt tired, all of a sudden his eyes fell shut. His heart was beating fast. Why was that? Ahhh, good… numb... a blank mind… that was good… exactly like he had planned. A genius after all…

"Sherlock!" Johns voice cut through the silence at 221B Baker Street.

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Before I start into my holidays: here comes the next chapter. Chapter 3 will be published in two weeks.

Isaldaria: Since you know me you can guess that from here on it will only get worse… Wicked is my second name. Perhaps he dies, perhaps not…

**Chapter 2**

"Sherlock, look at me? How many? How many have you taken…"

Sherlock never responded. He tried. Yes he did, but his body never listened to his signals. Move a hand… nothing happened. Speak… not even a moan came over his lips. Dizzy! Please John, please help me…

"Sherlock, listen you have to drink this."

He felt Johns touch on his neck, something wet on his lip. Salty… he could not… Please John, please help me…

"Drink it… dear god, what have you done? Swallow it… please Sherlock. For me, please?!"

John? Are you crying John? The wet thing... this… what was it? The water was in his mouth, not water something far more foul in its taste. He had to retch. Waves of pain washed over him. He remembered far too clearly. Like last time… oh god. He did it again. Without intention. Oh dear. John… please…

"That's good. It has to come out Sherlock. Clear the system…"

John, are you there John? He was not able to hear him... not really. A faint whisper. He was slowly drifting away.

"Sherlock!"

A desperate cry from the doctor.

"You have to hold on, Sherlock. Stay with me… please…"

John's hands again. He touched Sherlock's face. Had anyone ever touched this man like that before? Searching? Seeing? Really seeing? John… please help me…

They moved around him. Voices. Mycroft? Someone else. They lifted him up. Where to? Not hospital… not… Darkness. Finally!

John fell. Down on his knees, his breathing was ragged and a sob threatening to come over his lips.

"What happened?"

Mycroft stood over him like a god to strike down the sinner.

"I don't know. Everything was fine when I left and then I came home and everything was … like this."

He pointed at the mess around him: The spilled wine on the carpet, the pills on the table. Sherlock's vomit – John had forced it out of him, feeding him salted water. As if this was enough. How many had he taken? Five, ten? John had tried to count but tears blurred his vision. Why had he left those medicines in the bathroom, open access for a drug addict… former addict or so he had thought.

"Will he survive this, John?"

John shivered. "I don't know."

"But you are the doctor…"

John closed his eyes. "Too many unknown factors. I don't know how many he had taken, I don't know how long he was alone, like this… I don't know… oh god", John sobbed, "I don't know why he took them."

Mycroft nodded, picked up his phone. He seemed his normal self, but the tight lips and the lines around his eyes betrayed him: He was worried beyond reason. Mycroft spoke softly into his phone while John tried to pull himself together. Breathing. Breathing was essential. He stood up, brushed down his clothes. He had to move: To the hospital, to Sherlock. "Call me!" Mycroft spoke into his phone again and then he nodded towards John: "Come on, John. Better go."

"How is he?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Damaged. But still alive. Barely. Irregular heartbeat, they say."

John nodded. How had it come to this?

Again he was in Mycroft's black car, again on the way into a hospital. But it was the first time Sherlock was the victim, it was the first time he started to realize that he might lose his best friend.

Unknown to brother und friend, just arrived at St. Barths Sherlock's heart stopped. Twice.

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He was small again, a little boy with soft dark curls and knowing eyes. He saw the fury in his father's eyes and recognized the betrayal his mother must have felt in this moment. It was written all over her face.

"Why Sherlock, why for god's sake have you killed that bird?"

"I had to know", his former self replied. "I had to know how it functions. That's why I had to cut him open… to see, to understand."

"This is not a machine, a thing, Sherlock!" His mother yelled at him. His father only shook his head.

"But…"

"No but. You killed a living being. An animal. For what?" Where there tears in his mothers eyes?

"But I had to know!"

"You killed a bird out of curiosity?" It was then that something between him and his mother had died. Sherlock was no longer her baby child but a lunatic seven year old boy. It was the first time he was forced to see a "doctor", the first time someone called him a freak. And it came out of his father's mouth: "Freak", he had said and then he had left.

He remembered. If his mind could have reached out to him, he would have told John how sorry he was. He would have touched him, mind to mind, soul to soul, because it was something even a Sherlock Holmes could not bear: This lone figure sitting next to his bed. Lost.

John watched him. Hours had passed since they had brought Sherlock into hospital. He had not moved since. Everywhere were cables and machines, pumping air into the consultant detective's lungs. The heartbeat was regular again. Thank god. Sherlock had not gained consciousness yet, but he had not died either. That was something, wasn't it? John watched the sleeping form of his best friend. Sherlock was pale, even his lips were white now, a contrast to his nearly black hair. Sweat was on his face. John carefully removed a drop with his thump. He had never touched Sherlock like that before and it made his heart ache. Had he done this tiny gesture two days earlier could he have saved Sherlock? John blamed himself. Sherlock was right: John saw but John didn't understand. He should have recognized the signs. Sherlock had been far too quit that evening, not even touching his violin. He had stared out of the window, blinking from time to time. But more like a statue, than a human being. He had not responded when John had said goodbye, but he seldom did. So why worrying? But he should have seen the shaking hands, he remembered them now. Oh Sherlock.

Why had he done it? Why? John desperately wanted to ask that question. But it was not essential, wasn't it? The only thing was that Sherlock survived. John never prayed, never since Afghanistan. But he did it that day. He prayed so deeply that he didn't see how Sherlock stirred for the first time.

He had been three years old when he first recognized he was not like other children. Playing on the playground, digging in the sand, running around… that was boring. He loved to explore things. And he never understood why other people looked at him in this strange way. One day made him see: He was not normal. Not like other kids. Not like Mycroft or Mary or Pete…

Grandfather – what had he looked like? – had given him a little car to play with. It was of metal, painted in blue, polished till it shone and with tiny little rubber wheels. His grandfather had shown him how to move it, back and forth, back and forth. Boring.

That evening Sherlock had taken his new plaything and had thrown it into the fire burning in the stove.

"Sherlock", the shocked voice of his mother still sounded in his ears. "Why did you do this? Don't you like your new car? Granddad was so proud of you today…"

Sherlock looked at her with big eyes. It was his car, wasn't it? So he could do like he pleased.

"Sherlock, you will have to apologize for that."

Why? It was his car. And this was important. He had to know. Which part of the car would melt first?

His mother rambled on while he stood motionless, transfixed by the melting car in the fire. Beautiful. Interesting. The tires were aflame, the car slowly crumbling. It was a picture to remember. For sure. He loved it!

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Sherlock thought his head might explode. His throat felt like being torn open by force and his body ached. Had he run into a car?

No. Sherlock remembered. Sherlock, the fool, that was what he should call himself from now on. Or even better: Sherlock, the idiot.

John? Was John somewhere nearby?

Sherlock tried to open his eyes. Nothing. He wanted to wet his lips but something was in his mouth, cold plastic… do not panic… oh dear… Suddenly there was this light. Painful in his eyes. Ok… he understood: Eyes open. Good. Pain. No… no please. His breathing was ragged.

Beep, beep, beep… the sound of the heart monitor sounded slowly and even at first, but it started to beep faster and faster. Like his heart. Sherlock could feel it in his throat, pumping blood through his veins… still… so he had to be alive… do not panic…

"Shhhhh…" A cold hold touched his head, stilled his trashing form. John's hand. Sherlock searched for John's face, John's eyes. There he was, still a bit blurred. Funny….

"I am here." It was good to hear John's voice. John meant living. John was good.

Sherlock searched John's hand, craving the touch of his soft fingers entwined with his own. There it was. Sherlock clinked on him desperately. There were people around, pulling something from his throat. Light blinded his eyes for a few seconds. Someone spoke. Sherlock did not recognize him. He still held John's hand, still looked into his sad eyes. Tears again, John?

Sherlock tried to breathe. In and out. Breathing was essential. John had told him so. And then he opened his mouth, his lips rough and aching. It was a word someone could have easily missed, for it was no more than the trace of a whisper: "John."

But John heard. John smiled.

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Two days had gone by since John had found his best friend dying on the floor. Two days and Sherlock had not spoken to him. Nothings since this carefully whispered "John". So tender. So caring. Longing even. John closed his eyes. He felt tired but refused to sleep. Once he had tried, but he had woken up shaking and crying because for one moment he had been sure Sherlock had died while he was asleep. Oh Sherlock…

"You know one day you have to speak to me, right?"

Sherlock did not blink. He was staring at the wall opposite his bed, he had not moved since Mycroft had been here hours ago. Sometimes John thought he saw something in Sherlock's eyes, a flicker. Was it guilt? John touched Sherlock's arm, so warm and soft, so unlike Sherlock himself: A cold hearted man who inflicts so much pain, destroying the people surrounding him. No, John was unfair. If Sherlock was an uncaring person, why, dear god, why had he then tried to kill himself?

"You will have to tell my why you tried to kill yourself, Sherlock. You can't stay like that forever."

Sherlock's head snapped towards him.

"Think, John." Sherlock sounded far stronger than John had expected. "Deduce. Do you think I would still be alive if I really intended to kill myself?"

John flinched. "You nearly succeeded, Sherlock. Had I come home a few minutes later, I would have been too late. Do you know what you are doing to me? Do you?"

Suddenly Sherlock grabbed John's hand. He looked him into the eyes for the first time. And there John saw it: The guilt, the pain, the self-loathing and hatred. "I misjudged. That's all. I misjudged how many I could take without doing any harm. John, I never intended to… I once tried to kill myself, but that was long ago. I am no longer that man. You see: I am no genius. I misjudged."

John could not blink. He held Sherlock's gaze. This was the closest thing to an apology Sherlock would give. John knew. "You cannot do this to me, Sherlock. Not to me, not to your brother, not to Mrs. Hudson. If you do this again you will destroy all of us. Do you understand? You cannot…"

"I won't."

And then he was silent again.

He could not stand it. The pain was so clearly written all over John. Sherlock was lost. He wanted to remember what he had done, why he had done it. But it was not possible. He remembered some pieces: How he had fetched the pills, how he had opened the bottle of wine, how he had taken them, swallowed… but why was a miracle. He could guess und would probably guess right: His past had finally reached him.

"Explain it to me. Please."

Oh John, how few you know about darkness. Sherlock smiled softly.

"How can I ever trust you again, when all you are giving me is this lame accuse… how… this won't work…" John stood up, clearly angry. John was shaking again and Sherlock felt the bitter taste of regret on his tongue. "Sherlock… this is ridiculous. Have you heard what Mycroft threatened to do: If I do not stop him he will send you into some clinic where they will keep you sedated and locked up until you start talking. And you never will. I know that. You will never speak to strangers. Sherlock you have to let me help you…"

"You don't know the darkness and if you knew it, you would never speak to me again. I do not beg John. I do not. But I ask you: Would you take me home?" Sherlock watched his friend closely.

"No."

"I will not say 'Please'."

"No."

"Then I have to run. You will need to use the bathroom or fall asleep and when you come back, I will be gone. Take me home, John, I mean it."

"No, not this time. You have manipulated me once too often, Sherlock. You crushed every trust I ever had in you. I won't play after your rules any longer."

Sherlock fell silent and when he started to speak again it was with the intention to hurt John. Hurting people often helped him gain what he wanted. "Why have you saved me then? To let me rot in here? To make a child of me? A child you can cuddle and suffocate with your attention? Why not let me go to my death then? Why…" Sherlock had to take a breath.

"Stop it. Stop this at once. You will not get what you want in insulting me. I told you I will no longer play after your rules." John was angry and hurt. Oh John, Sherlock could read him like an open book. So easy, John's every fiber was a mirror of his inner turmoil.

"John I can't do what you ask me to do. I can't tell you… you don't know the darkness you would have to face. It will break you and then it will break me and in the end we have gained nothing. That's how it is. You will leave and I will be at the point again I once was years ago… I had really wanted to die then."

John took Sherlock's hands into his own, warm and soft. Not the hands of a soldier but of a doctor. "I will not leave you Sherlock. And if you ever want to have my trust again, you will have to start telling me."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "One story John, one. And you promise to take me home then?!"

John watched him, studied the lines on Sherlock's face, searched for something that showed him that Sherlock planned to lie to him. Then he nodded.

"Mycroft had been wrong. About me, about my inexperience, about…"

"Is this what this all was about? Mycroft teasing you?"

"No John. No. But that is how it started. The spiral downwards started with him taking away what I wanted to have. Don't blame him, John. For he had not known what might become of his actions. I don't like my brother, most times, but blaming him would be far too easy. It was my own fault to believe that anyone could ever love someone like me…"

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sophia had been fifteen like Sherlock but in everything else they had been totally different. He quit and brooding, she always laughing and so alive it had hurt Sherlock to watch her. They had been in the same class together in school and she had been the only girl that had even dared to speak to him, the only one that had been nice.

If he had been a poet, he would have called her "fair lady" or something else stupid. But he was not and so he only grinned like an idiot when she walked by, saying again and again "Hi Sherlock!". He blamed the hormones, his body, his youth but in the end he had to admit that he had totally and utterly fallen in love with her. Sophia. He knew it meant wisdom in Greece. But she was not wise, perhaps even not that intelligent, not as brilliant as him, but all these things did not matter for when she smiled Sherlock was lost.

In school he had never fit in. Even in his first class they had started to call him names, "freak" was the nicest of them all. And when he became older it only got worse. First they had followed him on his way home, than they had started to bully him: Putting his notes into the school toilet, one day they had even pushed his head under water but when the next time they started to threat him to pee on his face he had had enough: One day he had sabotaged the bike of one of their leaders, he did not only loosen the brakes he even put some fireworks in his saddlebags. It was a tricky construction but in the end the mechanism was effective: The moment the boy started to tread his bike hell went loose. And Sherlock smiled for the first time in his early three years at school. Since then they had left him his peace. The only problem was: No one even dared to speak to him. No one but Sophia. And for that alone Sherlock could have loved her.

And then one day the incredible thing happened. The bell rang and Miss Lucy, one of the servants who had not abandoned the house in panic and fear of the youngest Holmes, had called him down. "A young lady for you, sir", she said and for a moment Sherlock believed it was a joke.

But there she was: Fair Sophia her biology textbooks under her arm.

"Hi", she said and blushed. So sweet. So innocent.

"Hi", he said and again smiled like an idiot.

"You know", she said then, "I am not that good in this biology stuff and so… and since… I mean you are... great and I thought… maybe we could prepare for the test together?"

He stared at her not being able to have one clear thought.

"I mean", she stammered on, "I could help you with your next English test... I mean literature and so... perhaps…"

He smiled for it was a miracle: He was really good in all this technical stuff: Biology, physics, and chemistry… he was far beyond his class and age. But all these other things: Literature, poetry… he never understood the use of it. But he liked Sophia and he liked that she not only came to use his knowledge but that she came eager to share.

"Of course", he said. And with that their friendship began.

No one in school understood why she would even speak to him, no one understood why he only smiled and laughed when she was around, but for the first time in his life Sherlock felt secure and loved and cared for and… dear god: Sherlock Holmes was in love and for the first time brain did not matter. His heart, his soul was everything to him. For the first time he did not have this inner pull to show of, to demonstrate his skills, for the first time it was enough that she was around.

This went on for the entire winter, spring and deep into summer. They went swimming together in the lakes, one day they even made a trip to the coast at Brighton. There were these secret touches, a movement of his hand here, a slight flick of her fingers there. And for the first time in his life he was truly happy.

And then there was the day Mycroft came home from university and with that fateful day everything changed. It was far later that Sherlock recognized how much changed in these days for with loosing Sophia everything else began: His way to destruction, pain, humiliation and nearly death.

It was mid-July, a hot summer day and again they had taken their bikes to make a trip to that beautiful little lake in the middle of nowhere. He was at ease with only her around for at home everything had become tense since Mycroft's arrival. The "Why can you not be like your brother?" haunted Sherlock everywhere in his home and Mycroft parading around with his first Oxford degree had made it even worse. So going away with Sophia was like a miracle of peace for him and seeing her hair fly in the wind was like watching the sunrise for the first time in his miserable holidays.

They had a picnic in the shadow of two large trees, later they swan in the lake together: she moving closer towards him than he had ever dared. And when they finally lay breathless in the sun she touched his face, his wet hair. He could see her chest rising in unsteady breathing. And while she looked down on him lying on his back he touched her lips with his forefinger. "So sweet", he whispered. He could not look away. And then the most incredible thing happened: She bent down and kissed him. Soft first but when she recognized his increased breathing, his eyelids closing she deepened the kiss. And suddenly there were not only her lips but her tongue and he opened her lips for her, kissed her back totally lost in the flavor of her sweet mouth. It must have been hours, for that was how it felt for Sherlock. And when they finally broke their kiss, both of them totally breathless, he laughed and touched her face, her hair again.

"Dear god, you are a kisser", she said and he smiled proudly because it has clearly not been her first kiss but his.

"I love you", he said then. Something he had wanted to say for some time but never dared.

"Oh Sherlock", she said and a dark shadow crossed her face. He sat up and looked at her more closely. She was all of a sudden not able to meet his eyes. "You see", she said, "I really like you, but… oh shit… I should have never kissed you…"

"No", he said", "it was… I quite liked it and…"

"Oh… shit, shit, shit… you are even a bitter kisser then him, but…"

"Who?" Suddenly there were tears in Sherlock's eyes as his nearly perfect day turned out to be a disaster.

"You see, he is a bit older and at university and so cool and… I want to be your friend. And he asked me to kiss you to look if… oh I don't know… this was a bad idea."

"Who?"

She looked down onto the ground while tears streamed down his face.

"You brother thought…"

Sherlock ran away before she could tell him more. He even left his clothes and his bike, ran home the eight miles on bare feet. He did not even care that some hard rocks and thorns pierced open his feet. He never looked back, not when she called his name, not when she started to cry and not when she begged him to come back.

He ran home. And on this day he broke Mycroft's nose.

With that Sherlock ended the first part of his miserable life-story. It was embarrassing to tell this, even though he knew John was the only person who would understand what it meant to him, Sherlock, to speak about such intimate details of his life. Sherlock never looked up when he after minutes of disturbing silence finally started to speak again:

"And now John, please take me home."

And so he did. But if Sherlock had believed with this he would get away from John's curiosity he had been totally wrong. For when Sherlock again tried to get rid of this "story telling", this "bullshit of a therapy", this "you-are-not-Freud, John, -thing" John threatened to move out. And even though Sherlock believed this all to be "quite ridiculous", one evening after drinking too much wine he finally gave in.

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you all for the reviews. Before moving on with the story, I have to give you some warnings because from now on we move into the dark parts of Sherlock's history. It is not pleasant and there will be topics some of you will not like. The next chapter is one of the darkest, it contains a form of sexual abuse, so if you think this is something you do not like to read: Skip it and continue reading chapter 7. You will only miss a small part of the story. I have already finished this story and try to publish the chapters every second day from now on. And I have started to write the sequel which I will start publishing as soon as this story is finished. It contains 11 chapters, by the way! _

_Yours Esta_

**Chapter 6**

For Sherlock sex with women had always been about control, with men it had been about being controlled. To be honest: Being used was nearer to the truth.

His first sexual experience with a man had been with a brute Sherlock had met in a bar, an establishment for that kind of contacts. Sherlock knew where to go to find sex without attraction since he had lived on the street for a few weeks at the age of sixteen, shortly before his parents and Mycroft had shipped him away to a boarding school on a god forsaken island somewhere in the canal. He was 21 at this fatal day in the bar but looked much younger, like a skinny boy, a teenager with short hair and full lips that attracted men of that special kind: Men with a longing to dominate younger ones, brutes with the tendency to hurt boys while having sex. Sherlock knew all that, Sherlock had searched for all that. Because for blowing out his mind again he searched a new experience, a dangerous one, only thinking about it made him shiver. He was not afraid for his live, never was, for he believed to recognize any sign of immediate danger. But he longed for lust, for pain and for the moment his mind went totally blank.

On the way to this cheap hotel the man touched Sherlock for the first time, a tender gesture along his spine, nice and comforting. Not good. But Sherlock smiled. Sherlock knew this man and even though the man played to be the nice guy, Sherlock knew he was not.

The first doubt crept into Sherlock shortly after they had arrived in their room: The man told him to disrobe, slowly for him to watch. Sherlock did as he was told, his mind rambling on about dangers, doubts, possible outcomes… and the man stood nearly motionless in the middle of the room, watching him out of his cold black eyes. Then the man opened his belt and his trousers but only far enough to free his erection.

"Kneel down", he told Sherlock and the younger man obeyed. The blood pounded in Sherlock's ears and a slight shiver ran over his skin. Excitement and fear were a good combination.

The man grabbed Sherlock's hair, not the long locks he would later wear, but cut short so the man nearly found nothing to hold on. His breathing was labored and Sherlock knew that the man was even more excited than he himself.

"Have you ever done this before? Kissed a man? There", the man nodded towards the part between his legs and Sherlock shook his head. "Then do it!"

By then Sherlock was completely aroused and the man noticing it began to laugh. "Little minx", he whispered and pushed himself between Sherlock's lips.

A strange taste, a far more strange feeling than he had expected. As the man began to move towards his throat, for a tiny little moment Sherlock believed he would not be able to breathe like that even though he had read about. Relaxing was the clou. But for this tiny little moment he panicked and gagged. That seemed to arouse the man even more. He touched Sherlock's head and whispered. "Yes little boy, sweat little boy…"

That kind of man he was. "Suck it boy", he said, "suck it good because this is the only lubricant you will get today."

Shortly after that he had pushed Sherlock unto the bed. It was dirty and smelled of sweat and other body liquids, was far too often used for that special sort of entertainments.

At this point Sherlock's mind was already in an uproar. The fear, the excitement, his own erection pressed onto the mattress made it hard for him to think. And that was definitely good, better than every bit of sex he had had with women in the last few weeks, weeks in which sex had lost all its appeal.

Sherlock felt the man kneeling down behind him, still nearly completely dressed; only his trousers he had pushed down towards his knees. He had already taken out a condom, the only thing Sherlock had asked for when he had declared he would go with the man. He was not an idiot after all. The man pushed Sherlock's legs apart, touched his ass, slowly moved his finger over Sherlock's entrance. Why did he have to lick the man there, on his intimate parts, if know using a condom nothing was left of… Oh shit, Sherlock stop thinking. Relax. Enjoy. That was easier said than done because now he was afraid. Without warning the man pushed a finger into him and Sherlock hissed in pain.

"Shhhh… shhhh…", the man whispered now into his ear. And then he after all rubbed a little lubricant into him. Not enough Sherlock feared.

"My little virgin boy", the man whispered and then he moved into him. Slowly but not slowly enough. Tears were in Sherlock's eyes and even though he believed to be tough he started to sob. The man moved in deeper and soon afterwards in and out in slow strong motions. Waves of pain crushed through Sherlock's body. He was not prepared for this. He could not relax for this. Sherlock's mind was totally focused now, focused on the pain, focused on the lust that builds inside him. And when Sherlock thought it could not get worse the man suddenly grabbed his hips, grabbed him so that Sherlock was on his knees and hands and pushed into him even deeper. The man grunted like a swine. Sherlock let himself fell forward on his elbows, pushed his head onto the mattress and bit into it to stop himself sobbing and breathing hard.

The man found his rhythmus penetrating him again and again and when Sherlock started to believe that pain would triumph over lust the man suddenly began to touch Sherlock's front, his breast, his belly and the between his legs, massaged him. Long strokes with knowing hands, even better than Sherlock could do himself. And all that the man did while pushing his erection into him. "Oh yes", the man breathed into Sherlock's ear and bit down into Sherlock's shoulder till the man finally tasted blood. That was when Sherlock came and his mind went totally black. When he woke up again the man was gone and only the pain in his back and a bite-mark on his shoulder reminded Sherlock of this brief encounter.

Everything that came after this first experience with a man only got worse.

_To be continued._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

With women it had been different first. He had experimented with them in his youth shortly after arriving at this boarding school for a special kind of boys, all of them with social problems, eating disorder, experience of violence, drug abuse… all that sort of things Sherlock never had till then encountered in his life. But his parents thought it to be a good idea to put him there: Sherlock finally needed that special treatment since he had run away and, clearly out of malevolence, punched his brother in the face. And all these stories they were told by teachers of his school… even that nice young girl did not come to visit them any longer: Clearly Sherlock's fault, like everything.

Oh yes, Sherlock remembered Sophia, the way she had kissed him and his body had responded. And he wanted to feel that again. Without being attached, of course. And it was soon after the arrival on the island that he became the sweetheart of nearly every girl at the nearby girl's school. He broke their hearts like Sophia had broken his.

Sherlock believed that most of these boys in school were idiots without brain but because of their past they never asked a lot of questions. And he was the boy who got every girl in town so soon enough he became some sort of gang leader. He suddenly did fit in even though it was into the wrong kind of company. They drank a lot in the evenings when no teacher watched them, mostly Vodka, smoked weed and one day even tested some strangely colored pills. Most teachers did not care what their problem-pupils did once their classroom-doors closed.

It became a game for Sherlock: Seducing a girl and sharing it with the other boys. Only one day he made a mistake, clearly misjudged her, one of his early, stupid mistakes. Her name was Isabella, Isabelle or something like that but everyone simply called her Isa. She and Sherlock had met in a Cafe shortly after he had broken up with her best friend. She had come to blame him or threaten him never to treat the girl so badly again and… He had then started to cry fake tears about how this other girl had left him for that other bloke, how she had broken his heart and so on… it helped to remember his experience with Sophia to be a good actor.

They met three times after that. He bought her ice cream and chocolate and even a red rose. And after their few dates he told her he would like to show her his secret place. A little hut on the shore where they could watch the stars and the moon and… totally romantic…

He had told that every girl for the last half a year and still wondered why the story had not got round this small community of girls: That most times he met the girls there for chaste kisses, some petting and that sometimes even a fried came by to participate in games like "strip poker" or "truth or dare".

But this evening he intended to take it further. He had already stored some condoms behind two loose stones on the floor and when she finally arrived he lit some candles. He had even brought some old cushions and a stolen flask of wine.

"Hi", she said shyly and the kissed him on his cheeks. He moved his head so she kissed his lips instead.

"I am so happy you have come", he smiled at her while he uncorked the wine. "Would like some drink?"

"I am not sure… normally…"

"Oh bullocks… only one little glass for this is a special evening", he spoke in terms he normally never used. But who cared.

It did not even take him half an hour and she was in his arms. A slender and shy girl with light blond hair and speckles… even on her breasts as he soon discovered.

His hand moved slowly as he unhooked her bra, his and her T-Shirt long gone. He caressed her breasts like he had done with the other girls. He had quite some experience in that now. He kissed her nipple and blew some hot air onto them until Isa moaned. He pushed her further down and kissed her belly while opening up his trousers. His erection was throbbing painfully and he would surely need some release soon. He opened her trousers as well and moved one hand into her knickers.

That was when she stopped. "I never have…", she said. "Shhhh", he whispered into her ear, "neither have I." And that was not even a lie. He had done many things with girls but he had never gone this far. But he needed it. Desperately. There was nothing else at the moment that would make this throbbing pain in his head, his brain go away, nothing but sex. That was normal in teenagers, wasn't it?

"I don't think I…", she was clearly in panic. "I know", he said, "I am afraid, too." He clearly found the right words for she relaxed slightly. He pushed down her trousers and moved his finger even deeper into her knickers. She was tight, he could feel it, and nervous. He slowly started to move his finger like he had read men should do with women and how he had found out it worked well in his late experiments with women. He grabbed Isa's right hand and guided it towards his trouser and into it. "Feel", he said even though she was slightly taken aback. "That is what you do."

And then he kissed her, slowly moving a finger into her while with the other hand he guided her shy movements on his erect penis. He slowly felt his orgasm building and made her stop.

"I will show you something", he said, "don't be afraid." She shivered he did not know if out of anticipation or fear for no words came over her lips.

He pushed down her slip and spread her legs. He still wore his trousers to make her feel more secure.

He kissed her thighs, from the knee upward towards her center. Her breathing increased and when he finally kissed her center licked her wet folds he could hear her moan. He pushed a finger into her and slowly moved it in and out. He knew he was slowly driving her towards an orgasm. He had done this before with other girls. But while he fingered her he grabbed behind this loose stone and fetched a condom. He knew if he wanted to have her he had to be quick before she got any doubts.

She was nearly there, he could see it. Her eyes closed, her hips moving in his rhythm. He bent down again and licked her, while he pushed down his trousers towards his knees. It was not an easy task. Licking and putting that damn condom on. But then he had. Oh she was so close. But he stopped his licking and moved over her pretending that he only wanted to kiss her mouth. It was not fair, he knew but he could not care, for his knowledge of women behavior he had to know. And damn: He had to stop his mind worrying. No one cared for him so why should he care for anyone else.

He could see in her eyes that she knew what he was about to do.

"I don't think…", she whispered but the dilated pupils betrayed her arousal. He kissed her while he moved forwards. Dear god, she was tied. Was that like this with every woman? She cried out. Clearly not, clearly she was a virgin. And for a moment he felt regret. Not only because he had taken her on this path but because he knew two of his blokes were behind that hut gazing through some slight openings in the old wood, like gazing through a peephole. They were surely touching themselves.

He pushed deeper into her and she cried out again, this time he stopped his movements. He was not a cruel boy, after all, not that cruel… he looked into her eyes. "You all right?" he asked. She shook her head. "Relax", he said, "I… I try to be careful… ok?" She nodded. And he pushed again. For girls the first time never was good. Oh god, that felt hot. And slowly he started to move in and out. It felt too good to care any longer. He could imagine she did not enjoy it that much, but he had to come. Now. She was slick and warm and… shit. He moved fast now, looked her into the eye. And she finally seemed to relax.

Ohhh yes. He was nearly there. And then he saw him: Brad that idiot standing in the door, masturbating. Isa would see him soon enough, too and so he told her to close her eyes and try to feel his aroused member and… he came hard like he had never come before in simply touching himself or being touched by a girl.

What was his first triumph for the girl became a nightmare shortly afterwards because the now three boys that had gathered to watch started to cheer, calling her names and asked for their round. She ran away not even properly dressed and crying. And Sherlock felt bad about it. Totally ashamed. He had been so furious about everything that happened with Sophia that he never considered… what? That he was far worse. Bad enough he had seduced this girl for his entertainment. But even though he knew she meant nothing to him why had he let these idiots watch? What had become of him? What?

The girl had ran away to tell a friend who told a teacher who told Sherlock's school who told his parent's who took him from this school and send him to another.

But all that was not bad in comparison to what Sherlock felt: He felt heartless and cruel. And he knew he had stripped himself of his own happiness. He would never experience how it felt, the first time with a woman you love, he would never experience what he had always hoped to have one day with Sophia. And he knew: After this half year on this island sex with women would never be a normal thing for him. For he had twisted it into some mind game, something wicked. And he would never ever be able to part from that experience.

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The change of school brought other changes as well for Sherlock Holmes. He for example stopped this girl thing because the experience with Isa had shown him not to trust himself with love or sex. He was a beast, a swine when it came to girls.

It was a school for boys of the English elite, Sherlock never spoke of its name – some school mates had entrusted him with rather delicate family issues, he said.

They all accepted him there. Some because they soon realized that a brain like Sherlock's could be useful in their future career, others because they knew of the elder brother just graduated from Oxford and yet in a senior position at the ministry of defense. Some might have even recognized that the elder Holmes would someday be something like THE British government.

And Sherlock had gained some knew knowledge that made it easier to blend in. He used a language far more experienced and polished than most boys of his age that gave him a better standing with the teachers. He started smoking for smoking one cigarette after another was far less creepy and strange than a nearly 18 year old boy staring motionless at a wall for hours. For how should anyone understand his complex mind palace and his way of thinking, concentrating only on the things in his head, lost for the outside world.

For most of the other schoolboys he became the mysterious guy. He played it well for soon they recognized he knew things no one else did. And even so he told them openly he only "deduced", they believed he had some secret contacts, perhaps the help of his brother when it came to learn things about other people. Sherlock let them believe for it made it easier for him to blend in. And after a few months he became some kind of private school investigator. Whoever needed to know anything: Sherlock was the right person to ask. Humphrey, let us call him Dexter for his real name should better not be known, always needed money: For clothes, cars, girls, sometimes drugs he willingly shared with Sherlock, Cocaine mostly. But one day the father, a rich banker on his way to being knighted, had decided enough was enough and had cut his son's finances. Sherlock had met the father only once but of this one short meeting had deduced the man had a lover – not a sweet little girl, but his assistant: A young blond haired man, slightly shorter than his own son with an angelic face not older than 26. Sherlock knew Humphrey would use this information to blackmail his father but since he profited of it and no real damage was done (the father really had enough money and the wife would find out sooner or later even without anyone blackmailing) he willingly shared this information.

And with this his career began. When he finished school at the age of 19 he had a wide network of contacts: His former schoolmates made impressive careers and his early work in the professional field of private investigation had already given him a standing in the community. Whatever Sherlock needed he would get it: Information or drugs – he knew whom to ask and where to go. But what could have become a straight path to the top of his field soon ended in his downfall.

_To be continued_


	8. Chapter 8

_Here it comes, the last chapter of Sherlock's miserable story. After that we will move on straight to the Fall! I never intended this to be Johnlock, but … ok… just read! And please leave a review, if you like it. Or hate it ;-)_

**Chapter 8**

With Irene Adler it had been different for the first time, for she was in power and he would have to obey. She offered him a new path, full of light and splendor but a path he never dared to walk even though she was a mistress of seduction. She was totally beautiful, slender, light and with skin so unharmed it made his mouth water to taste her.

But she was a broken woman already. He had recognized that at the first moment: A woman in a relationship with her assistant, but fucking every member of the royal society who had a taste for her special kind of treatment. Mostly women. For Sherlock it had been an interesting experience because he had always believed men to be more often involved in that kind of bodily mind game.

Sherlock clearly had been. In that Irene had been right. But it had always been with men, not with women he had experienced pain. He had once tried with a woman: she thirty-something, he already scarred from drug abuse and… so what? He had gone to that club for special… you know? Right? And there she was declaring loudly that she could only come when a man whipped her while fucking her from behind. And he was not the man to deny a woman something she craved so much. He had given her an experience, she had said, she would never ever forget and that she would compare any other man with him. But Sherlock it had brought no joy.

Yes, he liked to dominate women, to make them do things they would normally never agree to, like having sex on a train toilet with a door unlocked and approaching a railway station. That had been exiting for him: The mind game, slowly twisting a woman until she would do everything for him. If every broken heart he had left behind had been of solid gold, he would be rich by now. But he had never enjoyed to bodily harm anyone. Ok yes, criminals, wicked men, like the one who had cut Mrs. Hudson – hurting them he had enjoyed. Maybe he would be able to kill one of those, maybe… But they had deserved it. No simple woman did!

Pain and sex had only been exiting for him when he was the one to experience both. And that kind of harmful joy had always been linked to men. Why, he did not know, maybe because he had started that way, maybe because he always had believed women to be more vulnerable until Irene had shown him otherwise. He had never liked to inflict bodily pain, but he had always liked it if someone else had harmed him, like the rape-like first experience he had with that brute in his early twentieth. He liked the pain only because it made him feel more alive, more alive than anything else did.

With Irene it was different because she was. She lied to inflict a certain kind of pain, she was a woman, she was dangerous and she was his mirror. Irene Adler was his counterpart; his dark soul mate like John was his light. If he had ever let her come nearer he might have fallen for her, loved her, cared for her more than for anyone else even though… John, dear, dear John. So sweet, so innocent.

But he liked Irene, always would. And when she was threatened with death he never thought about the danger for his own life and saved her. They were friends after all, a bit closer even. But never that close that they had made love. Lovemaking Sherlock only called it when thinking of Irene, when thinking of Irene and… no, do not mention that, Sherlock. It does no good for you to think about what might be. It was a dream and could never become true.

Irene was the first one for years who had tried to play with him and nearly won. All the other encounters, with clients, with so called friends from school, with murderers and thieves: Boring! Boring! Boring except one: Irene. No, wrong. Two: Irene and John. John. Never-boring-John.

John was the light that hunted the shadows back into their places, with John he could be without thinking… Liar! Liar-Sherlock! He always thought when John was near: He thought about his hands and how they had felt when he had once grabbed them while running along the street, so cold and wet from rain. Sherlock thought about John's hair – always a mess these blond curls. Sherlock had never felt like that before, and he would never tell. No one. Not even John. Especially not John.

To compare John to any other man Sherlock had met before, was like comparing heaven and hell. Most of his old acquaintances from school only thought about themselves, their career, their success and perhaps their families. That was all. And they were not the worst kind of people he had met. In his first years as detective he had moved into circles he would never had moved into in his private live, he had the best contact to criminals, drug addicts, whores… They were often his only source of information for many of his clients came to him because they had done something slightly illegal and needed help to get out of the mess they had made their lives into. Oh no, he never covered any crimes. But how else should he help an old schoolmate who had an affair with a prostitute who afterwards was murdered making him a suspect? How could he ever have found the necessary proofs to make sure the death sentence was proclaimed on Mrs. Hudson's husband, this violent man who had treated the kind hearted lady like shit? How if not in having contacts into the deepest circles of crime? He then had not yet met Lestrade and Mycroft had refused him any help from the authorities. He had been a bit like Moriarty, only: Sherlock had a heart!

And that was his biggest problem: He was not able to stand it, to witness the brutality of the world he moved in. It was like always: His brain never stopped working, not in daylight, not in the night. All the information he gathered, he could not blend them out even when he tried to sleep. And so he did again and again the thing he himself had promised not to do. He used sex and drugs and drugs and sex, slowly destroying his body to save his mind.

It had been one of these really bad days: He had searched for the girl for weeks, 14 years old she had been. So young. This day he had to tell her father she was dead. Raped repeatedly by more than one man, afterwards they had cut her throat and pushed her body into the Thames. Sherlock had seen pictures, a video made while… dear good. It was more horror than he could bear.

This evening he tried to make the pain go away with more force than ever. To heal his soul his body had to bleed. For the first time he phoned the number he had once discovered in a newspaper. He knew what to expect, even though: The cuts the man inflicted on his back hurt like hell. They made him focus; they made his mind go blank. The man had sex with Sherlock's bleeding body, but Sherlock didn't mind. He was long past caring.

He still bled, when he came home. Or what he called home these days. He mostly stayed in hotel rooms, for the only way to keep his space clean was to have a room service who cleaned after him every day.

He would never understand what made him do it. He was wounded too badly in his soul to care any longer. He had bought the heroin hours ago. He wrote this stupid letter for Mycroft and even paid a boy to deliver it. Not now, in a few hours, he told the boy. But the boy was eager to please and that would later save Sherlock's live. Something he had not intended to happen. Sherlock drank some whiskey to make the fear go away. He cleaned his wounds and put on some fresh clothes, than he laid down his body to rest. It was not necessary to make some mess out of this business, wasn't it? The poor girl that would find him… He heated the Heroin on a spoon and stopped the blood flow in his arm in wringing some stripes of his shredded T-Shirt around it. He injected it… would it be slowly? Death? The pain cursed through his veins, the shock of the sudden arousal of all his senses made him breathe hard, his heartbeat became irregular. Sherlock lost consciousness before the pain started.

That was how Mycroft found him: Sherlock was laying flat on his back, arms spread wide, the needle still in his left arm, eyes closed. The sheets and his Shirt were soaked with blood because the fresh cuts on his back and his chest had started to bleed again. Mycroft's heart broke. For some moments he believed he had come too late, but then he saw the flutter of the eyelids, saw that blood still pumping out of Sherlock's wounds. Mycroft called the ambulance, he carried his little stupid baby brother like a child – down the stairs to greet them, every second pleading Sherlock not to give in, not do die. Not to die. Not to die. He whispered into his brother's ear: That he was cared for. That he was loved.

The man Sherlock had sex with was later arrested for sexual offences but Sherlock never made a claim against him. He never spoke. For month he was silent. Mycroft was for the first time caring for him, provided for every of Sherlock's needs. He was so afraid, so desperate not to let him die. His brother, his secret companion, the one person he loved. Caring was a weakness and his brother was the only weakness Mycroft had.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a new live, made Lestrade pull him into police service. First he was not impressed with Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's idea of his own flat. But he had to give in. How could he deny his brother anything? How? Because if he did, Sherlock might try… this… again. For month the younger Holmes was a shell, most time buried deep in his mind palace. But when he came back a decision was made: Never again would he let himself be pulled in such ridiculous games of sex and abuse, never again would he let himself be pulled into the darkness of a criminal's mind, never again would he use drugs (ok, smoking was all right! Wasn't it?), never again would he care what other people thought of him and never ever again would he have sex or even worse: Search for love.

He became a man without a heart – or so he made everyone believe – everyone but John. And that was, how Sherlock's story ended.

**xxxxxxxxxxxx**

John was silent, his face a mask. And Sherlock knew, no he feared, that John had made a decision: To abandon him, to let him suffer in darkness and move away, like every other man and woman had done before. But John didn't. He suddenly stood up and moved over to couch where Sherlock sat, he, Sherlock, was more a broken man than the strong character he tried to be every other day. John knelt down there and with his fingertips, only the tips and not his whole hand, he touched Sherlock's face and Sherlock's mind stopped.

"You know, Sherlock, it does not have to be like this?!"

Sherlock's breath stopped in his chest and his heart made a flip as John slowly traced his hairline, a whisper of a touch but enough to make Sherlock crave for more. He closed his eyes.

"Not with me."

Sherlock sobbed. Not loudly but in his soul. And then suddenly he opened his eyes and they were hart and cold again.

"I cannot walk this road again", he said and regretted every word he spoke, "I cannot. Not even with you."

And that was the end: His last dance on the dance floor of love.

_To be continued._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Somehow they had found back to normality, to a routine, where John worked as a doctor and both solved cases for Lestrade. They never spoke of that day again, both ashamed of what they nearly had admitted to each other.

Sherlock pretended. John watched. Sherlock pretended that everything was all right again and John watched for any sign that Sherlock would fall apart again. Once he nearly saw it: When they searched for the hound of Baskerville there had been this tiny moment when Sherlock had had to admit he had been afraid. This tiny moment that passed with insulting John.

They moved on till this doomed day when Moriarty finally decided to end his game.

Have you ever wondered, dear reader, why John was so ready to believe in Sherlock's death while he refused to believe anything else that was told about his best friend? Now you know it: Because he had seen, because he had understood and because he had once again deduced the wrong thing.

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To see John standing there down on the street, losing his mind it had made Sherlock feel doubtful about his steps. But how to stop this? How without killing everyone he loved? John. John. John. Moriarty WAS a genius because he had seen, deduced and understood long before Sherlock had admitted his own feelings. At one point hope had crept into Sherlock's mind because he had understood there was a backdoor, something to stop the snipers. But then Moriarty had killed himself and the only way to save John's live was to rip John's soul apart

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Later on John would think about it: If he had not missed anything important for Sherlock had seemed ok, no longer caring about what other people thought about him. One day, month after Sherlock's death, John came very near to the truth, deducing that there had been unknown factors, perhaps lives at risk, something that had forced Sherlock to make the decision to die. Perhaps John's live? Good deduced but shortly afterwards forgotten because the pain was too much to bear.

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Sherlock had hoped to spare John the pain. He never had let anything happen between them, he had even tried to give John some clues. But John was too good to understand the game of two twisted geniuses. Sherlock had never intended to break John, but he had. And he regretted that every day of his miserable existence. But he would not, could not endanger his friend in telling him he was still alive. There was work to do and without that finished every step towards John was a step towards John's utter destruction, towards John's death.

One day Sherlock had nearly broken the promise he had given himself, it was the day on the graveyard when he had heard John's words, the plea: "Please Sherlock, one more miracle…" Oh he would give him every miracle, everything he owned, he was, he ever would be if John could be happy again. "One more miracle: Don't be dead." I am not John, dear John, and one day you will see. You will see, deduce and understand.

_To be continued_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

For John it had been the worst moment of his life: seeing Sherlock fall, seeing him fall and never have told him… told him what? That he loved him, ever would? Clearly Sherlock had known that, Sherlock knew everything. Only once John had nearly admitted his feelings. No… not true. For then it had been an impulse he could easily have blamed on feeling pity with this man. But it had not been. John had never been into men, always preferred women, oh no, he was no homophobe had even once at the age of 17 kissed a man and it had felt good. But he had never fallen in love with one. With women, yes, there had been many. But at that doomed moment John had seen Sherlock at the top of this building, he had wondered if he had really loved before. He had felt it in every single cell of his body: The only thing he had wanted was to stop Sherlock, cradle him in his arms, and protect him from the wickedness of earth.

"This is my note, John…"

Good god. Sherlock had made his heart stop with that sentence. And when he had finally jumped, John had thought he would die as well for it had felt as if his entire soul had been ripped out of his body leaving only a bleeding wreck.

But somehow he had moved on. He had seen, cried, begged… but Sherlock had not moved again.

Molly had never let him see Sherlock's broken body. "Too bad", she had said crying.

If John had been another man he might have long followed Sherlock, he had truly one day held his gun in his hand but had decided against it. He could never do the thing Sherlock had done to him to anyone else. Not to Molly, who became thinner every day. Not to Lestrade, who had started drinking even though none of his colleges realized yet. Not to Mrs. Hudson. Oh Mrs. Hudson… after now eight month she had not rented the flat yet, had told him Mycroft still paid for it and came by now and then to remember the brother he had never understood but always loved. Not to Harry his sister who had finally stopped drinking for his sake.

John had tried to start a new life. He had moved out and rented a cheap room in a flat of five near Camden docks, the only thing he had asked for was to be left at peace. And since most of his flat mates were working people as well he mostly was. Only sometimes when he made some tea one of his mates came in saying "hi" and moved on again.

John was alone and he preferred to be alone.

One of his flat mates, Mary, she seemed to like him and in another life he would have tried… tried what? Sex? A relationship? It no longer mattered.

The worst was: He still saw him. Sherlock! One day in June he had walked down Camden High Street to get to the tube since the station at Camden Market again was closed and there he was: Sherlock! Or someone looking like him. He had stood on the other side of the road talking to a strange man, a homeless clearly, and had then given him something that looked like money. John had cried his name: "Sherlock! Sherlock wait!" But when he had finally arrived on the other side of the road the fake-Sherlock had been gone. He had asked the beggar who the man had been but the old man only had shaken his head. "N'one, sir… me j'asked for someting to eat…" The man had nearly lost all his teeth in one episode of his life and smelled like he had slept in a sewage plant for the last month. John had doubted his own mind then. If the other one had not been Sherlock who then? God! God! How stupid! For Sherlock had been dead for four month, had bleed to death on the pavement. John had read everything about it in the file Molly had written about... Dead! Dead! Dead!

But once it had happened again, shortly after John had applied for a job in social service as a doctor for the homeless people. He was on his first tour with the social worker as they approached a lonely figure under a bridge. "Hi there", he had said, "I am doctor Watson and…" At this the figure had started to run. Everything matched: The dark hair, the figure, the height, the movement of legs and hands… "Sherlock", he had cried again but without an answer. "You know this man?" the social worker had asked, a bearded bloke, more giant than man. "I thought so", John had said. "Happens often", the social worker had shrugged, "that they run away. Most of them are ashamed first, some have done crimes… they have to be really down until the come for us." "You don't know him then?" "Happens most of the time, tenth of the new ones every day…"

John had nodded. John had finally understood: He would never ever get over Sherlock's death. And on this evening he had asked Mary to go out with him

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Two times John had nearly caught him: Clever John, stupid Sherlock. For Sherlock was on the hunt. Every day he came nearer to destroy the inner circle of Moriarty's spider web. And without the center every net would fall apart. That was his intention. Every day now he would cut the last string. And then finally he would be back. Home. With John.

One month after his death the Met got their first package.

A simple text send from a prepaid phone to Lestrade, something to occupy the man, something to make his life better: "Present for you, 221B Baker Street, ground floor. Take care."

Nothing more. Sherlock believed Lestrade would first suspect John, then Mycroft but never him: the dead Sherlock Holmes.

The present was a man, neatly wrapped in tape, gagged and with a file clipped to his breast: Three murders, drug selling, child abuse, slavery. Everything neatly documented and proved. The man would never see freedom again. Number one.

The second package was delivered two weeks later. Again a simple text message: "It is like Christmas, bought something for you with love. Mortuary St. Barths, third door to the left, ask Molly Hooper."

They had found the man nearly frozen to death, stripped bare of his clothes, wrapped in ropes and with a red ribbon. And again a file: the list was longer this time because this man had been deep into a circle of organized crime. Giving witness against other criminals bought him only fifteen years instead of a lifelong prison sentence but it also brought down 13 other criminals all of them part of Moriarty's web. How the man had gotten there no one could explain least of all Molly Hooper who had started to cry and blubber something about Sherlock. Poor girl, totally devoted to a dead man. Number two.

The third one took Sherlock longer and nearly brought him into contact with John twice. He had needed nearly every part of his homeless network and once had phoned Irene about her old contacts as well. And then he had found her. The biggest spider of them all, the woman once believed to be Moriarty's lover but who was again only another of his vain creatures. Sherlock came out of this encounter barely alive, the woman not. They found her days later in the Thames, the file sealed into a plastic back and nailed to her back. Sherlock had needed a doctor, desperately, for he had a bleeding wound on his chest and one of his homeless friends had told him about the visits of doctors on the street and so he had camouflaged himself only to meet – again – John!

Dear god, he had simply run away but as he had heard John's desperate cry, he nearly had stopped. "Sherlock!" And again. Good lord, John had looked like shit, not shaved, in his worst clothes, far too thin and shaking. Poor John, lovely John.

It was Molly again who had flicked him together. Poor, innocent Molly.

And here he was waiting again. The last one. After that he could come back. Back to live. Back for John. He had already sent a message to Lestrade, a mysterious note of Anonymous again: "Last one to fetch, tomorrow, your home, be ready for a surprise. SH"

And then the first bullet flew.

T_o be continued_


	11. Chapter 11

The reunion! Finally! This is the last chapter of "His last dance" but I will start posting the sequel in a couple of days. Look out for "The burned man"! I hope you enjoyed reading and I would appreciate a short review. Thank you all!

**Chapter 11**

Their 12th date had been a disaster: She telling him she knew what it was like to lose a friend like that because her brother had taken his life as well, he trying to avoid the topic under all costs. Finally he had kissed her and felt nothing. She declared herself totally in love with him, clearly waiting for him to do something stupid like propose. Dear me, perhaps he should have, she was nice and the best he would ever get. But he felt he would never ever be able to love… someone… someone else… but him… Sherlock… God! That had brought tears to his eyes and he had begged her to give him one more day.

One more day to say goodbye. She had understood, for she had lost her brother. And she knew how it was to lose someone like that. And witness it. Oh poor John, she had declared and given him everything he wanted. Everything but Sherlock.

And for the first time in nearly a year he had come back. Here! He had kissed a joyful Mrs. Hudson who babbled something about ghosts in the flat and he had begged her to… to give him some time… alone… to… "Of course, of course dear, boy… so good to have you both back… so good…." Poor old lady.

How long had he stood there in front of this door? John finally decided to put the key into the lock and… move it. This pain again, deep down in his chest – it made his legs week and his eyes filled with tears. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… His name drummed in his ears in the rhythm of John's heart beat.

And then he pushed the door open. The flat was dark, only one lantern down on the street spent some shy light through a window. John wondered for a moment if he should turn on the light but that might destroy the illusion: The shadow sitting there in his usual place, burning holes into John's heart again. Was there still anything left that could hurt so much?

And then the shadow spoke. "John", he said. And for a moment John believed he had completely and utterly lost his mind. But then again: "John… good to see you at last." And John's legs gave way faster than the shadow could move. He was on his knees before the shadow reached him. John had known it would be bad to come back here. But that bad? To see shadows so realistic like that?

And then the shadow touched him, a warm hand on his back. "I am here, John. I am…"

And John saw.

"… here, I am…"

And John understood.

"…not…"

And John deduced finally the right thing.

"…dead!"

And with one swift movement John was on his feet again and punched Sherlock in the face.

"I see", John said finally capturing his breath and he started to laugh and cry and laugh again.

"What was that for?" Sherlock asked.

"For lying!"

And then John laughed again.

"And that?"

"For not… for not being dead!" And with that John started to sob, tears streaming down his face and his legs no longer supported him and he fell again. But this time there were arms to hold him. And suddenly there was a kiss on his lips, the taste of salt (his tears?) and blood (clearly had had split Sherlock's lip when he had punched him) and something totally delicious, totally Sherlock. Lips and tongues were on fire and so were two men.

When they finally broke Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes and for the first time his dark gaze betrayed Sherlock's feelings.

"It does not have to be like this, you know John", Sherlock said mirroring John's own words.

"It does not have to be like what?"

"Sad, painful, lonely… not with me, John." And then Sherlock kissed him again.

**The end!**


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